What The Blackbird Sang
by hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: He wants them to fit together, and at the moment they do not. Sherlock and Molly have moved in together and on together, but there's still one problem they haven't solved: How can a higher-functioning sociopath and a morgue mouse's relationship actually work? AU, sequel to "Be Near Me When My Light Is Low." Takes place 6 months after Hough's death, but can be read as a standalone.
1. What The Blackbird Sang I

_Disclaimer_: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. The title and all poetry quotes are taken from WH Auden's _O Tell Me The Truth About Love_. This is set in the same universe as _Be Near Me When My Light Is Low_, about six months after Mrs. Hudson's trial. I'm not sure whether this does well as standalone, let me know. And thanks as always to Katya Jade for her beta.

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><p><strong>WHAT THE BLACKBIRD SANG<strong>

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><p><em>Six Months In<em>

He wants them to fit together, and at the moment they do not.

He and Molly… orbit one another. They inhabit the same space. They eat the same food, breathe the same air. They share domestic chores and the news of their respective days and even, occasionally, the intimacy of emotional upset or trauma. He knows which cup is her favourite, she knows which microscope he prefers. He knows what her choice of pyjamas says about her emotional state (pink with strawberries, she's happy, blue with monkeys she's in need of cheering up) while she has only to take one look at his socks and she knows whether he'll be home for tea or whether feeding him will be John and Mary's problem. They share a bed and a circle of friends; They wind their lives around one another. But Sherlock knows that something is missing from the arrangement and for the life of him, he doesn't know what-

_Or more truthfully, he acknowledges, he knows what is missing but he doesn't know how to fix it._

Because it's only been six months since Oliver Hough's death and he knows that Molly isn't over it yet. He can see it in the way she tenses up sometimes when their interactions become too… charged. He can see it in her occasional, slight reluctance to touch him, and in her chagrined smile when she turns around in bed and presents him with her back most nights. Sherlock tries to be patient, and for the most part he succeeds: He has heard the stories of Hough's behaviour towards her by now- a prolonged court case is good for that- and he understands just how tightly The Bastard managed to knit fear, violence and helplessness with sex inside Molly's head.

It's hardly surprising then, given the facts, that she's skittish.

_But knowing that doesn't change his feelings.__** At all**__._

Sherlock is not a particularly sexual person: He meant it when he told John that he was married to his work all those years ago. He doesn't lose sleep over not getting his leg over, and he's certainly not going to stoop so low as to guilt-trip Molly into intercourse when she's not ready for it yet. But still… Sometimes, when they're together in bed, before she pulls away, before the fear takes over… It's exhilarating. Wet and warm and good and wanted and really, really, bloody marvellous. It's like running down a suspect, like unravelling a puzzle. Only with mouths and hands and Molly, Molly, Molly making the connections instead of his brain, rapid and lovely and quick-fire bright. Sherlock has never seen the body as anything other than transport: Its purpose is to ferry the mind about, nothing more. But sometimes, with Molly, it feels almost like the mind and everything else is connected. Like it's all part of the whole, and the whole is beautiful in its integrity. In its rightness. The only thing that's missing is Molly, Molly fitted inside and around and against him. Molly, breathing him in and out the way he wants to breathe in her-

But whenever they get even halfway to that point, normally Molly pulls back. Asks him to stop. Or else she begins to shake so hard her upset is impossible to disguise, which quite puts an end to proceedings- As it should do.

So Sherlock is patient. It's not his strong suit, but he'll give it a go. For her.

Because he loves her- though he cannot admit that aloud, not yet- and because he doesn't know what else to do.

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><p><em>Eight Months In<em>

Sometimes, he thinks she must be trying to kill him.

_In fact, sometimes he's convinced of it._

Because she sashays through the flat in a towel, or a little dress, or even just her track-suit bottoms and a t-shirt, and it feels like every nerve ending he possesses goes on high alert. Feels like his brain and his body just decide to go into cahoots with every asinine, Neanderthal instinct he possesses and turn him into an utter cave-man, which for a creature like he is disturbing to say the least.

Sometimes though he finds himself staring at her, salivating nearly, and the sensation is so embarrassingly gauche that he ends up feeling a little ashamed of himself. Because his Molly is not to be salivated over. His Molly is not to be importuned. And if she were aware of the images which flash through his head at those moments, he feels sure that she would turn and run away from him, horrified at how very base his imagination can become…

_Which is why he never, __**ever**__ tells her what he thinks about when she looks like that._

_It is also, though he would never admit it, why he spends so much of his mornings in a cold shower, the better to leave the hot water to her._

That she is completely unaware of it is obvious. Molly has no talent for flirtation, Sherlock knows this, and if she were trying to entice him then she would be painfully overt about it. _If she were trying to get him into bed he'd know_. At least, Sherlock's fairly certain he'd know. All of which makes his reactions to her that much more uncalled for. Because she's the one innocently wandering through their flat and he's the one purposefully turning that into an opportunity for perversion. He's the one looking at her and… thinking things. Bad things. Ungentlemanly things. Debauched and depraved things, if he's being honest with himself. He can't imagine her thinking anything like that about him, not when she's been through so much with Hough and not when she's so obviously quiet and gentle and sweet anyway. Not when she's so very lovely and Molly-like and on a pedestal he's not willing to touch-

_No, he can't imagine her thinking anything… carnal about him at all._

_Which makes what he's doing so much worse._

So imagine his surprise when one day, one normal, spring day nearly seven months after Hough's shooting, he walks into their room to find her standing in front of a mirror in black silk stockings, black satin spike heels and a black silk corset. Opera gloves coating her arms, up to the elbows, a riding crop in her hands. Heavy, thick eye makeup that obscures her features' natural fairness coating her eyes. She turns when he walks in the room, jumps in fright since she obviously didn't expect him. She loses her balance- there's a reason she seldom wears high heels- and lands with a thump on her backside and elbow, giving a grunt of pain as she does. Sherlock rushes over to help her up and she lets out an impressively long, impressively loud string of curse words, culminating in a particularly vicious invective against whoever invented stilettos in the first place-

"That wasn't supposed to happen," she tells him nervously, as he sits her down on the bed. She's rubbing her bruised elbow; she appears to have mislaid her crop. "I was supposed to- It was supposed to be more, um, seductive." She shoots him a pained look. "Sorry."

"Sorry?" Sherlock raises his eyebrows at her. "What do you have to be sorry for? And what precisely did you think I'd find seductive about this?" he demands, gesturing to her outfit.

_Really, he doesn't like seeing his sweet Molly in something so very… unlike her._

_That outfit belongs on The Woman, not on his pathologist._

Redness floods her face- embarrassment, Sherlock can tell, not anger- and suddenly her gaze drops to her lap. She murmurs something so quietly that he has to ask her to repeat it. "Ms. Adler- This is how she dressed, isn't it?" Molly murmurs.

She suddenly seems absolutely fascinated with the toe of her shoe.

"The Woman wore things like this, I remember looking it up after I read John's blog," she tells him. ""Know when you are beaten," and all that. And I thought- I thought-" She takes a deep breath, seems to force herself to say the words. "I thought that maybe, if, if I put in the effort, then maybe you'd want to, um, you know…"

He realises she's shaking ever so slightly.

_Oh_, Sherlock thinks.

"Oh," Sherlock says.

"So you mean…" He clears his throat, painfully aware that his foot has a proven capacity for taking up permanent residence in his mouth when he speaks about tender matters. But still, he has to try. "You want to… You want to have sex with me?" he says, trying to ignore how stiff and uncomfortable his voice is as he says that.

He could play-act his way through it, fake nonchalance, but he doesn't like doing that with Molly and never has.

She nods though, surprisingly eager though her eyes are downcast. It sends an unexpected shiver of warmth through him.

"Well, yes, I mean… I know I pull away," she murmurs. "I know I'm difficult. And I know you- Well, I must seem quite vanilla and boring compared to you-"

Sherlock blinks in surprise. _It seldom happens, but he did not see that coming_. "I'm- I mean, The Woman and I did. You know. Do _that_. And things," he says. "But it was one night several years ago and I'm surprised everyone has placed the amount of significance on it that they have-"

"Sherlock," Molly says, exasperated. "Your only known sexual partner was a voraciously predatory dominatrix who tried to bring the British government to its knees and nearly succeeded, before being beheaded by extremists in Karachi. That's the sort of thing people remember."

She bites her lip. She's squirming now.

"And besides… It's not the most reassuring… I mean, Adler was a great deal more experienced than m- than most." She sighs, looks up at him with slightly hopeless eyes as she trails off. "I mean, have you ever heard the phrase "you don't follow Sinatra"?" she asks quietly.

"You're comparing Irene Adler to Frank Sinatra?" Sherlock doesn't quite follow.

"Yup," Molly says morosely. "Most impressive performer in the Rat Pack. Crooner extraordinaire and sixties superstar. And I'm just… I'm just Peter Lawford."

_This statement does not offer Sherlock any clarity._

"Least successful member of the Rat Pack," she explains at his look. "It's… The metaphor may have reached the end of its usefulness now."

He inclines his head. "I believe it has done."

"Yes, well…" She sighs, plucks at one of her opera gloves. Kicks the shoes off. She looks so deflated, there on their bed. "I look like an muppet, don't I?" she says forlornly. "Just ridiculous."

Sherlock shakes his head. One of the first things John taught him was that insulting a woman's appearance never ends well. And besides, he hasn't forgotten what Hough told her: The cuts on her back were specifically supposed to make her so ugly that nobody else but Hough would want her. Sometimes he thinks she carries that fear still.

_As if a few small scars could make so lovely a woman as Molly unattractive._

"You don't look like a muppet," he says quietly. "But you don't look like yourself either, and I can't say I'm a fan of that." He gestures to the corset, aware he must phrase this next bit very carefully. He finds himself staring very hard at the lacings."But tell me truly, Molly," he says quietly, "Is this what you want? Do you… Do you need the props to feel in command? Would that make sex easier for you, after everything you've been through..?"

Now its his voice's turn to drop.

"Or do you think… Do you think_ I_ need all this?" He hates asking difficult questions sometimes, but he has to in this instance.

He sees her eyes widen as she realises what he means.

"Is this why you've kept your distance?" he continues quietly. "Because you think I'll… You think I'll want use force? That I used force with Adler? Because really, that's not how it works with a dom-"

He doesn't see the kiss coming, just feels the sweet, quiet pressure of it against his mouth.

It's over before it begins and when he looks at Molly her brown eyes are warm.

"I don't ever think you'd hurt me, Sherlock," she says, very quietly. "I just… I thought you might need a little persuasion. Or something." She sighs, rakes a hand through her hair. _It belatedly occurs to him just how frustrated she feels with herself_. "It's just… It's been six months and I still can't let you in," she says. "I can't let go. Always before me and the bloke just got carried away… I let myself get carried away. But I can't do that anymore: You've seen what happens when I try. I panic. And then, no sex. Which is annoying. For you. And for me. Because really, I've spent quite a bit of time thinking about us doing… things, and… I'd like to. I'd really, really like to…" She trails off.

Sherlock nods, frowning. Her voice has grown tiny.

He can't help but notice that she her hands are clasped, terribly tightly, there in her lap.

"But if I don't get a move on soon," she continues after a moment, "I'm afraid… I'm afraid it'll never happen. I'll never have the chance… You'll just accept that we're not meant to be lovers and I'll never get the opportunity to do the things I want with you. All the things I want to do to you." She blushes and despite themselves they both smile. "Or, or you'll get bored and move on-"

He hears the ring of truth in her voice and realises: That's what this is actually about.

_There are times when he underestimates how stupid the other men she's been with are._

"Molly," he interrupts. "As you so bluntly pointed out, before you my last sexual interest was a dominatrix with a genius IQ and notions of world domination. Before her, I hadn't encountered anyone intriguing in more than five years. Before them, the gap was six. And in both those cases, I was stoned. Does anything about that suggest that I have a short attention span, or the sort of sexual appetite I can't control?"

She shakes her head wordlessly. She looks slightly ashamed of herself for doubting him, something Sherlock likes not at all.

"Or am I to conclude that you assume I'm toying with your affections? Or that I am insincere in my pursuit of you?"

She shakes her head again, this time looking slightly horrified at his suggestion.

He softens his voice this time, because he doesn't want his annoyed tone undermining what he has to say.

"Then might we conclude that I am, in fact, determined to stick with you, no matter what shape our relationship takes?" he asks. "Or how long it takes for that shape to come about? Because that's certainly the impression I had meant to give you-"

Again, she kisses him. _It's really rather annoying that she has found so effective a method for shutting him up_. But he supposes it has its advantages too.

"Is that a yes?" he asks tartly when she's done, crossing his arms over his chest.

He's aware that the words would sound a lot more impressive if he weren't slightly breathless.

She nods, and there's something there. Some devilish light that he hasn't seen in a very long time, not since before Hough died. She looks… She looks lighter. Reassured.

_She looks like__** his**__ Molly again_.

"Yes, I think you would like to stick with me, Sherlock," she says quietly. "And yes, I would like to try and, um, you know. Do naughty things." He shoots her a cocked eyebrow and she giggles: It's quite a lovely sound. "But I think… I think it's going to be difficult. It's going to take time. Are you…" Suddenly her voice is timid again. "Are you going to be ok with that?"

Sherlock looks at her, really looks at her. Takes in the brown hair and the pale skin of her, the ridiculously kohl-rimmed eyes and the small, lithe frame. Takes in the completely inappropriate lingerie that she put on, just for him, to tempt him, because she wants him even though she's afraid of him and afraid of the things she wants with him and afraid he'll walk away.

And then he says the only thing he could possibly say, given the situation.

"Yes, Molly," he says. "I'm alright with that. As John would say, it takes as long as it takes. Now would you like some help getting out of that corset? I seem to remember them being a challenge."

She nods and he begins unlacing her, and when he sees their reflection in his door's mirror he's surprised by how… content, how domestic they appear. _Even with her in bondage gear_. Hmm, not something I would have guessed, he thinks. It's been a day of surprises for me. But it's a start, a good start, though he knows the rest won't be that easy-

She catches his eye in the mirror and he can see that she understands that too.

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><p><em>Eight and a half months in<em>

They start small, and they start together.

_Sherlock has always known that's the way it will have to be._

They start on the living room sofa, fire lit in the grate and burning. Shoes and socks off, Molly curled up against Sherlock's side as she reads. His arm around her waist as he scrolls through his emails on his mobile, trying to find a case. He's tall enough that he can look down and see whatever she has in her hands, can see her mouthing along to the words as she reads them. He realises with a start that she's buried in her father's poetry text book, the one he found in her bag when she was in the Baskerville infirmary, and it takes him mere moments to deduce why that might be.

After all, she reads that book when she's nervous, in need of reassurance.

She reads it when she wants to remember an uncomplicated time in her life.

She reads it because it reminds her of someone she loved very dearly, and Sherlock wonders whether there's a way he could add himself to that equation somehow-

So before he can stop and make himself uncomfortable, or convince himself that he'll muck it up, he decides to do a minor experiment. One he thinks might help her.

He finds her place in the poem and begins reading along with her, keeping his voice soft and low.

"Is it prickly to touch, as a hedge is?" he reads. "Or soft as eiderdown fluff?

Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges? O tell me the truth about love."

He can tell her reaction from the precise moment she hears him. She goes slightly stiff, the breath leaving her body in a momentary little whoosh. For a split second Sherlock considers stopping, and as he opens his mouth to ask her whether she'd like that she tightens her hold on the book, shifting it so he can see it better, as well as sliding down so that she's pressed more tightly against his frame. Her head dips and her eyes close; After a moment he continues, reading through the next stanza since she's relaxing. He's never really had any interest in literature before, but words are words, aren't they? And Molly seems to like the sound of his voice.

_You two have that in common,_ he can hear John snort in his head.

But he ignores that, continues reading. There's another three verses and then a poem underneath that. He has plenty to get through, at least for a the time being. And there's something in this, something new, though he can't say precisely what. So he sounds the words out, letting his voice dip and lean and weave with meaning. A performer by nature, that's what Mycroft always said he was, and he supposes he can see his dear brother's point right now.

As he speaks, he feels the tension seep further out of Molly. Sees her chin slump down to her chest, sees her shoulders butterfly apart as if they are finally resting, releasing after months of being winched tight. Her free hand flutters down after a moment, sliding to the one he has placed on her waist. He feels the weight of it, cool and delicate, feels her fingers skim lightly across the inside of his wrist to caress. It tickles- for a moment he considers telling her- And then she takes his hand. Moves it. Presses it gently against her belly, solid and warm. Her fingers splay against his and after a moment he spreads his own, his longer fingers mirroring the pattern her smaller ones make. It feels… He's not sure why he's shivering. He just knows that there's something thick and warm and heavy and honeyed in his chest and he doesn't quite recognise what it is.

"Keep going," she murmurs. "Just… keep reading. No matter what happens, please don't stop..."

"Yes." He presses a kiss to her temple, nodding and continuing his recitation. As he does so he feels her free hand move, dipping lower, dragging his along with it. Feels her hips hitch and rise from their place against his body, even as his hand- still on hers- dips inside her pyjama bottoms to press against her belly, and then lower. Much lower. To press against the damp, slightly coarse fabric of her knickers, where she's- Where she's wet_. For him._

That hasn't really happened before, not to this degree. At least, if it has, he hasn't gotten far enough to notice. But guided by her, he feels warmth and slickness as her fingers press down, very gently, on what he assumes is her clitoris. The lips of her opening spreading for him, a gentle, insistent pressure against his skin. He doesn't move his hand, lets her guide him. Lets her set her own pace, her own measure, his hand a witness to the event rather than an active participant. One press, two: He feels her shiver. Three presses, four: Her movements speed up and Molly lets out a long, low hum, murmuring something, even as he continues reading.

_Even as his voice and another's words move her through this new place she's in._

Her mouth moves as she presses inside herself, her little, sweet lip bitten by two equally little, sweet teeth. Her body loosens further, her lashes sweeping her cheeks; a flush moves up her throat, her chin. Takes possession of the apples of her cheeks and oh, but that is a lovely sight. Her breasts heave a little and Sherlock finds he wants to discard the book and touch them, feel them fill his hands, but he does not do it. He cannot bear to break this moment they're in. She's found her rhythm now, she's making it, and the insistent pressure of her hips and arse against his body are making Sherlock hard now, harder than he thinks he's ever been, harder than he was beneath Irene Adler that night in Karachi.

_It's all he can do to keep reading the words, all he can do not to give in_.

But read them he does- he thinks he's restarted the poem, he's not sure- as she rocks and rides against him. As she rolls and writhes to her end. He can see sweat on her brow now and he can't help himself, as he takes a breath he presses a kiss to the back of her neck, tastes salt as it slivers onto his tongue- From her. Feels her pulse hammer against his mouth, fluttering and flustered as a lover's kiss. There's a moment, a beat of stillness, a hiss of indrawn breath. Molly's body arches suddenly, and then she's twisting her legs hard around their joined hands, a paroxysm of pleasure. Her eyes half-opened, unfocussed. Her body beautifully taut, a pale, golden line of luxury against his own.

After a second she sags, all the energy going out of her. There's satiation in her face now though, peace and calmness that Sherlock hasn't ever seen. He tries to finish the poem- "Will it knock on my door in the morning? Or tread in the bus on my toes?"- but Molly takes the book from him. Places it flat on the sofa even as she twists in his lap. She kisses him and this time it's different, it's deep and sweet and drugging.

This time, there's not a trace of fear in it.

Her hand finds his heart, presses against it. "Thank you," she says, her voice low and lovely and spent. "I- That was-" She sighs. It sounds blissful. "I'd forgotten it could feel like that."

Suddenly there's a lump of… something in Sherlock's throat. "You are most welcome, Molly Hooper," he says, his arms tight around her, his cock hard. Wanting. And yet, he would rather that than not have witnessed what he's just witnessed.

_The body is only transport, after all._

Molly blinks at him with those large, brown eyes, suddenly shy now, the flush of sex slowly being replaced by the flush of embarrassment. But Sherlock does not disentangle himself from her, and she doesn't even try look away.

They stay like that for the rest of the night, peaceful and quiet together.

And when Molly falls asleep that night, it's with Sherlock wound in her arms.

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><p>AN There now, hope you enjoyed. I'm not sure if it's finished yet. And if you did enjoy it, why, there's a wee button there that lets you tell me how much. So maybe you should use it? (Whistles innocently). If, you know, you want to... Hobbits away, hey!


	2. What The Blackbird Sang II

_Disclaimer: _This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Thanks for their reviews go to Crimson and Chrome 42, Reina434, Cordelia, AJP910, Aquitaine85, flor, INeedAUserName, Sara Dobie Bauer, Rocking the Redhead, andalusa, X.x and Katya Jade. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Enjoy!

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><p><strong>WHAT THE BLACKBIRD SANG II<strong>

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><p><em>Nine months in<em>

The days pass, and things get easier.

Molly goes back to counselling and the therapist says she very pleased with her progress, pleased with the both of them, in fact. It makes Sherlock happy, because he now knows that he can give Molly release, at least, and he tells himself that that is enough for him.

But though she trusts him enough to permit his attentions- lips, tongue, hands, fingers, all can be most judiciously applied in the pursuit of a woman's pleasure- Sherlock does not push for anything further than that. He does not attempt to expand their activities, is content in seeing merely Molly's desire fulfilled.

_ Bluntly put, he does not push for intercourse, and he's not entirely certain why. _

Though he may find his own needs resurfacing with a regularity they haven't displayed since his university days, he's not sure what to do except to take care of them himself. He will not allow a few animal urges, which he can happily manage, to dominate his interactions with Molly. _She has been through enough, without his attentions being foisted on her too._ And he does love those interactions with her. He loves the warmth of the house when he comes home, loves food on the table and a fire in the hearth. Even loves knowing that someone cares enough for him to tell him he's being an arsehole when he knows he clearly is. Sherlock has always been aware that he is difficult to live with and has thus never really enjoyed domestic felicity: The only person who ever appeared to _enjoy _his company before John was his mother, and her disappearance to the home had effectively robbed him of that sort of calming environment.

But with Molly… He can enjoy having a bolthole to come back to. A place where he can be himself and none of the big, loud, angry people in the world outside can touch him. In 221B there are no frightening, insulting, judging people who might think he's a moron- or worse yet, a target- unless he disabuses them of the notion through a sharp, pointed, vicious deduction or two. Here, he can rest. Here, he can let his guard down. _Here, he is… safe. _And if the price of that is giving Molly pleasure then he will gladly pay it-

He will not let himself wonder why sex must be an either/or matter between them, will not let himself wonder why, when all his instincts seem so intent on carnality, he does not wish to open himself up to more than satisfying Molly's appetites.

And because she is so nervous in the beginning- and so grateful later- at first Molly does not bring the matter up. At all.

But though they don't talk about it, Sherlock is aware that sometimes her gaze… strays to him. Her expression one which he resolutely will not understand, for all that he can see her pupils dilate and her eyes darken, her skin flushing just the slightest bit as if she's thinking of something… less than innocent. Sherlock is aware that she has always been physically attracted to him; Perhaps he is simply her type, though he is willing to allow that after all these years it must actually be genuine affection mixed in with the lust. But though he knows their relationship is not platonic- one does not _platonically_ go down on someone three times in the course of a single day because she just tastes that good, and you've both just discovered you like it that much- Sherlock tries to maintain a sense of decorum.

He may not succeed but he does try.

_ And maybe that is a more telling statement than he is willing to allow. _

Because he doesn't like to think of _himself_ as a sexual creature, at the mercy of his baser appetites, no matter how much he might enjoy seeing Molly in that light. In fact, the notion of pursuing what he wants, of taking control of his own pleasure, is something which leaves him quite cold. Intellectually, he knows it makes no sense. From a cultural standpoint, he should be the one insisting on coitus and Molly should be the one fighting him off with a stick. And yet… He enjoys the things they do together. He does. He enjoys the sense of trust and companionship between them, loves that he is the only person who gets to see Molly Hooper come undone from something that that bastard Hough had tried to ruin for her forever. He enjoys the taste of her, the smell of her, the feel of her. Enjoys the way his heart constricts with something he would never admit to every time she comes for him, murmuring his name. But that's not the same thing as wanting to… Needing to…

_ He finds he doesn't even have the words to tell himself what the problem __**is. **_

And then, one night, more than nine months into their relationship, Molly decides to take matters into her own hands. Literally.

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><p><em>Nine and a Half Months In <em>

He's been out on a case and he's hyped up on adrenaline; John has left him for the comforts of his bed and his wife, and thus he pads into the flat alone. At first he thinks Molly's gone to bed- the parlour's in darkness- and so he decides to shower before joining her. He's not a delicate creature, but nobody should enter another's bed when they're covered in the detritus of three different types of pig entrails. He slouches into the bathroom, turns on the hot water. As the steam builds he looks at the bathroom mirror, seeing the words _Hello handsome _appear on the glass, drawn on by Molly earlier in the evening, no doubt.

He smiles at the thought and reaches out to trace the letters before stepping into the shower's spray. The heat is good- he's sorer than he's been for a while- and as he runs through the night's adventures he reaches down for his shampoo. Rakes it through his hair, tipping his head back to keep the suds out of his eyes.

The scent hits him and as it does he realises that he's actually used Molly's shampoo- so much for the art of deduction. But it's too late now, he supposes. And besides, he likes the smell, enjoys the pleasant memories it brings. It reminds him of holding her close, of the smell of her clothes in their wardrobe or her skin between their sheets. It's… home, that's what it is, though he would never be so juvenile as to utter such a thought out loud. But whether he wants to admit it or not, the scent or that shampoo is a powerful stimulant. And here, on his own, under the heat of the spray and with the jittering desire for life which being near death brings pounding through his veins, Sherlock feels his body respond. Feels his nerves prick and tingle, coming back to life, even as a great deal of his blood decides to head resolutely South…

His cock hardens a little, the heat and the memory of his Molly conspiring. Normally Sherlock doesn't do this with her in the house, but she's in bed, not able to see him. Not able to get the wrong idea about what he might want her to do. So he takes himself firmly in hand, gives a couple of brisk, strong strokes which send pleasure buzzing along his spine even as they encourage his cock to greater hardness. He learned early precisely what he wanted from this, learned precisely how to reach his end quickly, and tonight is no exception. The heat lashes down on his shoulders, his chest, as he tugs himself to completion. He is aware that he's making noise, but it doesn't matter, the sound of the water covers it. Should Molly wake up- and it is her name he's muttering- all she will hear is the sound of him washing himself off. She won't know- He won't have to tell her- His attraction to her is no less than when she first moved in but he won't have to tell her-

And then suddenly, unexpectedly, the bathroom door opens.

Molly steps inside, a yawn widening her mouth, one fist pressed tiredly against her eye. She's wearing nothing but shorts and a baggy _Wrath of Khan _t-shirt.

She looks up and takes in Sherlock- all of Sherlock- her eyebrows rising up to join her hairline as she instantly ascertains what he's doing. For a single moment Sherlock wants the ground to open up and swallow him-he's never before understood that phrase- but he can't even articulate why. He makes some ungainly, jerking motion; He moves his hand away from his cock, opens his mouth to speak, to say he knows not what. His free hand scrabbles up to turn off the water, inane excuses tumbling out of his mouth-

Before he can though, Molly pulls open the shower-door, steps inside.

She hasn't even bothered to pull off her pyjamas.

Sherlock stares at her and she stares at Sherlock and then, very carefully, maintaining eye-contact… She reaches out and he feels her small, dry hand wrap around his length. Her fingers are soft. Warm. Her grip is gentle.

_ It feels unbelievably, immeasurably, unacceptably bloody good. _

He lets out a loud, sharp curse word, his hips jerking forward instinctively, and she jumps. For a moment he swears she'll pull away from him - he'll let her- but instead she takes a deep breath and steps closer still. Her eyes drop to his chest.

"Like this?" she asks, her hand stroking, and it's breathy, her voice. Deeper and hesitant, though the arousal is obvious too. The water is lashing down on her, plastering the t-shirt to her shoulders, her breasts. Droplets of it hang like tiny icicles on her lashes, pure white against the flushed pink of her skin as her hand moves gently, back and forth, back and forth. On him. Around him. Winding him tighter than tighter, then tighter and tighter again. He often thinks her beautiful but in this moment she is gorgeous, voluptuous, a feast of temptation and kindness-

"I don't want you to," he mumbles, "You don't have to, to do anything you might dislike-"

She kisses him, doesn't let him finish. "I don't dislike this," she says. "Not with you." He can feel her grip on his cock loosen even as her cloth-covered chest presses against his, moving them both further into the stall. Now she looks up at him and her eyes are dark. Her mouth opens slightly, tongue caressing her lip.

"I want this," she says. "Please, show me. Show me… Show me what you like." Again her eyes drop and she nuzzles her nose against his chest, peppering tiny, butterfly kisses across it. Licking and nipping and caressing, the disconnect between the innocence of what her mouth's doing and the carnality of what her hand's doing setting heat, lava-like and molten, flowing through his veins.

For a split second longer Sherlock hesitates, stands in this No Man's Land of desire. A witness, not a participant, in his own pleasure. The one acted on, not the one taking charge. And then she sighs- he feels the puff of it against his heart, cool amidst the heat of the water- and in that moment something within him simply… snaps. He cannot bear this any longer, he cannot bear the distance between them. His hand comes down and tightens on Molly's, makes her grip harder.

"Like this," he says, and now it's his voice that's hoarse. "Like this, my Molly-" He kisses her forehead, her hair, any inch of her he can reach, "Harder, that's- That's-" He thinks he might be forgetting English but he doesn't really care-

Molly smiles against his skin- her cheek is now resting on his chest- and she follows his lead, letting him show her his pleasure. He dimly realises that he's been backed against the shower wall and he's pulled her with him, the coarse wet cotton of her shirt sticky against his chest as she tugs and strokes and jerks him, her hand a fist inside his own. Sherlock can't help it, he's babbling, his free hand moving up inside her shirt to cup and knead one small, perfect breast. The hard point of her nipple both taunt and reassurance against his palm, telling him that she is at least enjoying this. He wants to change places, to push her against the shower wall, to rut into her hand like an animal as she works him, but he doesn't. Even though his reason is rapidly leaving him, he retains enough awareness to know that so trapping an act will probably terrify her.

_ And there is nothing in the world which could be worth that. _

So instead he pulls her closer, pressing himself into their joined hands quicker and quicker- His hips pistons, and his breath is coming like a locomotive, and Jesus Christ but this feels bloody good. Molly murmurs her encouragement, her lips still kissing every inch of him she can reach. There's a twist, an explosion of pleasure starting at the base of his spine and radiating outwards and then Sherlock sinks down in the shower, the strength gone out of him. He is delighted, when he finally comes back to consciousness, to discover Molly safety tucked between his legs where she is curled up, stroking his chest again and nuzzling into him.

_ It is,_ he thinks, _the most peaceful thing he has ever experienced. _

For a long time neither of them say anything, let alone move. They've been building up to this moment for months (_years, really_) and they're not sure what to do now it's come and gone. When the water turns cold Sherlock stands- his knees have been in better working order, but he's not thinking of that now- and he switches the shower off. He'd love to do something manly like picking her up and carrying her to bed, but he suspects that ship has sailed. He couldn't carry _Toby_ to bed at the moment, let alone Molly.

She smiles at him when he offers her his hand and nods. Walks easily towards the bedroom. She snags a towel as she goes and when they get inside they dry each other, slowly, carefully, the way they did that first morning after Mrs. Hudson shot Hough. Molly's worrying her lip as she does it, the fabric sliding all over his bare skin. She looks to be working up to something but Sherlock's not sure what. When she finished she hops away from hangs the towel over on the radiator; Sherlock stands and follows, taking her sodden pyjamas and placing them beside the towel, his hand hovering gently over her arm before trailing down it, his fingers curling at her wrist.

"Are you alright?" he asks quietly. "Did you- Have I-?"

_ He's not quite sure what he wants to ask her. _

She looks up at him with bright brown eyes. There's no fear in them, or regret.

"That was wonderful, love," she says and the endearment is new. Different. Sherlock thinks he likes it, though he knows he'll never say so. "I just… I'd like to do that more often, if you don't mind." Her eyes slide away from his, suddenly nervous. "You take good care of me, such good care, and I'd like- I'd like to be able to do the same for you." She stares up at him with bright, brown eyes. "Can we… do that? Would that be ok?"

Sherlock stares down at her, nonplussed. He'd never thought of it that way before, but he supposes- He supposes he does guard her. Keep watch over her. Take care of her. He's never had anyone want to do that for him, not really, and he wasn't aware he had acquired the skill. Even the terms of his relationships with Mycroft and John were different than this. _ But…_

"Are you sure..?" He stops. Clears his throat. Tries again. "Are you sure that's something you're willing to do? I mean, I don't want to push-"

"-I want you to push." She smiles up at him, raises her hand so that it dances lightly across his collar-bone to skim over his shoulder, the rise of his bicep, before sliding down to stroke his hip, his side. It tickles. "I like touching you," she says, "and you like touching me, I think. We just have to get used to touching each other, and right now we're not.

But- But that can change. Can't it?"

Sherlock's hand comes instinctively down to still the fingers Molly has placed on his hip, but at the last moment he loosens his grip. Leans into her. Presses a kiss to her forehead, one arm snaking around her waist_. He can do this, and not just for her_. "Touch away," he tells her. "I'll let you know if it gets too much for me-"

Molly steps into his space, her arms going loosely around him, her hands coming to rest on his sacrum as she leans up and kisses his lips lightly. Tenderly. _He wishes he weren't so bloody new to this._

"You too," she says, and Sherlock nods. He's… He thinks he might be fine right here.

* * *

><p>AN There now, the next chapter I think will be the last. Hope you enjoyed that, and if you did, remember: reviews are love. Thanks for reading and hobbits away, hey!


	3. What The Blackbird Sang III

_Disclaimer: _This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to LadyK1138, Renaissencebooklover108, Sara Dobie Bauer, Aquitaine85, Reina434, blairebearwaldorf, AJP910, Cordelia, Rocking the Redhead, Kathmak, Katya Jade and my guest. This is the last chapter, so enjoy.

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><p><strong>WHAT THE BLACKBIRD SANG III<strong>

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><p><em>Eleven Months In<em>

There are things they can do, and things they can't, and the longer they're together the more thorough that list of limits becomes.

Sherlock, for example, cannot bring himself to display affection in public. However much he may feel it- and he does feel it, more than he ever thought he could do- he cannot make himself kiss Molly, or hug her, or tickle her, or do any of the other silly, playful things he's seen John and Mary, for example, do. He will hold Molly's hand when they're out (because he likes it and frankly, if there's a criminal in London stupid enough to a) not know who she is to him or b) try to get to him through her, then that criminal deserves to become the latest victim of Darwinism and Sherlock will cheerfully help the process along). He will touch, kiss, caress and even canoodle with her when they are behind closed doors. He will stroke her skin and read to her and even, unbelievably, brush her hair because he finds it relaxing and the sounds she makes when he does it are… distracting, to say the least. He will hold her, _love her, _be with her, no matter what obstacles the world throws their way-

But he cannot truthfully play the part of the lovesick swain before an audience; What's between he and Molly is between he and Molly.

_ The rest of the world can bugger off and mind its own bloody business, as far as he's concerned._

Molly, on the other hand, has more specific boundaries which she cannot cross. Loud voices and pushing or shoving will instantly make her freeze up; her body remembers only too vividly how it felt to be yelled at, forced, and it reacts on instinct. It goes completely dead. Even in the bedroom she still cannot sometimes bring herself to relax into his embrace, though he knows that it is no reflection of her feelings for him: They may not use the words, but Sherlock knows that they are in love.

_ There's no other reason he'd feel this way_.

_ Or that she'd put up with him. _

Besides, their amorous adventures together include all manner of licking, sucking, kissing and caressing, (though not, so far, coitus). It's an embarrassment of riches as far as he's concerned. He wouldn't change a thing about how they interact, for all he knows many men who'd think themselves hard done by for having to hold themselves back. But it doesn't matter: She has decent reasons for feeling so, and though they are not his doing, he will live with them. So what if she cannot bear to be held down and she cannot bear to be cornered in any way? She what if she cannot bring herself to go down on him either, though she tries several times to do so, dismaying herself when she finds that she cannot carry through? _After all, she's still his Molly_. Of all of her boundaries, this seems to be the one which bothers her the most, though Sherlock honestly can't see why-

"It's not like my penis will fall off if it doesn't have regular contact with the inside of a woman's mouth, Molly," he tells her one night, after her third aborted attempt at fellatio. "If that were true, I'd have been walking around like a Ken doll for years, now wouldn't I?"

Molly blinks up at him from her position at his hip, her eyes worried and frustrated. _Her unwillingness in this area is down to Hough and his abuse, Sherlock knows; she doesn't mention details, but The Bastard used it as a… punishment. _She looks… She looks almost defeated by his words; When he sees it, Sherlock sighs and pulls her up to him. Kisses her gently on her nose- he will never admit such an action to anyone, even John- until she presses her forehead to his. Sighs.

"And you have plenty of evidence that I'm not a Ken doll, now don't you, Ms Hooper?" he continues quietly, trying for humour to break the silence.

Her lips twitch with amusement, quite without her permission he's sure. "Yes, Sherlock," she says. "You're definitely not a Ken doll."

"Exactly. Glad we've established that." Sherlock smiles back at her. "Besides, had my cock fallen off from lack of use, you'd have tripped over it somewhere in the flat by now-"

She snorts. "More likely Mrs. Hudson would have. Or a client. Or John."

She gives an exaggeratedly dramatic shudder.

Sherlock shudders along with her. "Had that happened, people _definitely _would have talked." He makes a face. "And imagine reading about _that _on his blog-"

"I don't think he'd put it on his blog, Sherlock."

He cocks his eyebrow. "Oh? Why not, pray tell? He bloody put everything else in-"

Molly's smile is wider now, some of her embarrassment forgotten.

She shifts so that she's closer to him, some of her stiffness winding away.

"He had enough trouble scoring when you were living together and everybody thought you were a couple," she points out. "I'm not sure how his heterosexual credentials would fare, if people knew he'd gone and found your cock, and that it had gone and run away on you-"

"I suppose…" Sherlock mock-frowns. "Though if it's that inclined to wanderlust, perhaps you should check and make sure it's still there."

He shoots her his most innocent look, takes her hand and guides it down to his penis. As her fingers wrap around him he lets out a contented sigh; He sees the spark return to Molly's eyes, the reminder that they can share this even if oral sex is off the table, and he grins, begins moving her hand with his own. She shifts, straddling him as her hands work him and his fingers slide up her inner thigh to tease her clitoris, her lower lips. She throws her head back, a moan forming deep in her throat and he laughs, kisses her chin, her ear. "See, cock's still there," he says.

His voice is sing-song.

"Yup," she answers, popping her _ps, _"And it appears to like me…"

Her words die as he presses his thumb against her just _so _and again she moans.

They pass the night like that, happy and sweaty and proving beyond a doubt that Sherlock's cock is not detachable (though it may be inclined towards roaming…)

He falls asleep with his head pressed to Molly's breasts, her fingers in his hair, and it is the most peaceful he thinks he has ever been, or will ever be again.

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><p><em>Eleven and a Half Months In<em>

The Woman returns, tries to see him.

She's found herself an alias in the US, for real this time, and it's her last chance to visit dear old Blighty and pay her respects.

Sherlock refuses to see her but she won't take no for an answer.

She turns up at Baker Street to find that he has another living there.

Adler's eyes narrow on Molly in her jeans and t-shirt, her hair still wet from the shower, and she snickers at her. Calls Sherlock lover and tells him she's surprised at him, thought that he had higher standards than that. She even offers to give Molly some advice about "playing with the Holmes' boys," to which Molly proudly answers that she needs no help, she's had too much fun with trial and error to start trying for professionalism now.

She also, incidentally, tells Adler to, "fuck off."

The Woman seems surprised, then impressed by, Molly's absolute lack of intimidation in the face of her allure. She leaves Sherlock a business card, tucking it coquettishly into his jacket pocket as he escorts her from the premises, but her expression tells him she knows he'll not be using it, tonight or any night. When he comes back upstairs he's not sure what to expect, whether Molly will be upset or not-

She kisses him once though, asks him if there's something he wants to tell her.

He shakes his head- there really isn't- and that night he finally gets around to taking Adler's messages off his phone.

Molly notices, but she doesn't say a word, and neither does Sherlock.

_ Adler may always be The Woman to him, but Molly is __**Molly**__, he knows_.

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><p><em>A Year And A Day In <em>

The day he finally accepts what he and Molly have, peaceful and happy and unexpected as it is, is the day that John and Mary christen their first child.

It is also, coincidentally, the first time that he and Molly engage in intercourse, though he's not trying to suggest that the two things are in any way linked.

Or maybe they are. For when he watches his best friends present their child to the world- _James, they've named him, after John's old commander Shalto_- it occurs to Sherlock that, though he is not at ease in this group, he is nevertheless a part of it. He is as much a member as John, or Mary, or Molly, or Mrs. Hudson; He belongs with these people and their joy. And despite what Mycroft so often told him, he no longer thinks that that's necessarily a bad thing- _Sentiment, in fact, is something which has been really rather kind to him- _

For a moment his thoughts drift to his sibling, in exile now due to his handling of the Hough affair, but instantly he brings his mind back again.

He will not feel sorry for Mycroft, no matter what his heart whispers to him. His treatment of Molly was appalling, and from that, there can be no turning back.

Besides, today is a happy day and he is, despite his many (loud) statements to the contrary, determined to enjoy it. He might even, if he feels it necessary, dance. So he chats to John and Mary, smiles, albeit stiffly, in the photos. The baby cries but every time he picks him up it quiets, something over which Mrs. Hudson makes the most irritating cooing noises imaginable. "Don't get ideas," he tells Molly, but she just grins. Eventually the DJ starts up and they both do the awkward shuffling-around-the-floor dance (unfortunately, not even Sherlock can waltz to _Shawaddywaddy_). They drink and have little mini sausages while Sherlock amuses himself by sharing what he knows to be the food's contents- _What's a little e-coli and dog meat between friends?_ And then, when he's had a glass of wine or two, he and John tell a couple of the funnier stories of their years together. Mary joins in, sharing one or two which makes her husband blush, and everybody laughs.

_ It's ordinary, and stupid, and absolutely bloody brilliant. _

Sherlock and Molly stumble home, not drunk but pleasantly relaxed, sometime around eleven. They clatter into the house, easy and slow in one another's company now, and Sherlock doesn't know why, but for some reason when he looks at her, he knows he wants to have sex with her. Knows he wants… He wants coitus (though he's fairly certain he shouldn't use that word when he makes his pitch.)

Molly turns to look at him from her place in the living room, one yellow open-toe sandal in her hand where she's pulled it off, and though he might not be able to explain why, he has the strangest feeling that she too wants what he wants. It makes no sense; though he can see her pupils are dilated and her skin slightly flushed, which he knows are symptoms of inebriation, he looks at her and he just… Knows. (_You'll be believing in sorcery next_, the Mycroft in his head scoffs, but he forces the voice away.) For a split second they just stare at one another, her biting her lip, him shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot and then- Then-

Slowly, he holds out his hand and Molly closes the space between them. Takes it. She's barefoot now.

"Do you want to, um..?" he asks through a tight throat. "Um…"

"Shag?" Molly finishes. "Yes please." Her smile is shy. "If you want to, that is..?"

Sherlock nods.

"That would be um, good, yeah," he says, and with those words his-their- fate is sealed.

So they walk into the bedroom and this time when Molly closes the door, Sherlock isn't afraid of what will happen next. He reaches out and pulls the pins from her upswept hair- _one, two, three- _and scatters them on the dresser. The locks come loose, down around her shoulders, and though Molly is self-conscious- "It must look like a rat's nest," she murmurs- Sherlock has rarely seen a more lovely sight.

She steps onto his feet, begins undoing his tie. She struggles with the knot- he usually ties them himself- but eventually she gets it loose. Opens it. She presses his jacket off his shoulders and sets herself to opening his shirt buttons, folding the fabric back as she goes. With each button opened she kisses the spot of skin it exposes; Sherlock nuzzles into her messy, half-down hair and smiles, his hands stroking down her shoulders to caress her elbows, her hips, the flush swell of her arse. She gets to his cuffs and frowns, unable to open the _TARDIS-_shaped cufflinks. It's actually quite funny, since they were a gift from her, but Sherlock comes to her rescue, smiling as she finally pushes the shirt off his shoulders.

She stares for a moment, one small hand tracing patterns he can't understand on his flesh, and then she steps off his feet, presents her back to him. He places both hands on her shoulders; her breathing feels delicate underneath his touch. The zip of her dress opens easily and he slides one finger lightly down her spine, kissing her shoulders and nape. She shivers, but it's the good sort of shiver, he can tell the difference now, and he smiles as he presses the yellow sundress off her shoulders, downwards, downwards, as he wraps his arm around her waist to pull her back into him and out of the dress, letting his weight tug them backwards onto the bed-

Molly lets out a yelp of surprised laughter, both her arms coming down to tighten on his as they tumble backwards. "Sherlock!" she gasps, but she's not scared, she's happy, and once again he thanks his stars that he knows her well enough to tell the difference now. He's not sure why- and he'll never admit to it- but he tickles her belly, causing more yelping laughter. Her legs kick into the air as she wriggles against him, and as he pushes her knickers down her hips they slide to her ankles, only to be ejected to the top of the dresser when he tickles her again and her foot jerks. They both laugh at the sight of her underwear festooning the furniture, and this time she tickles him back, twisting in his grasp and pressing him backwards. Her knees go on either side of his hips and it's playful, happy, as she stares down at him in nothing but her stockings and her bra.

"I really hope," Sherlock says breathlessly, "That my cock doesn't decide to run away right now…"

Molly kisses the tip of his nose. "If it does," she says with mock-grimness. "I'll run after it, don't you worry."

They both laugh, Molly throwing her head back, her brown eyes shining. She looks down at him with such affection, such love in her gaze, that it's really rather extraordinary. And then slowly, as he watches, she reaches behind her back and removes the bra. Tosses it.

She bites her lip as she shows herself to him completely naked, for the first time, he suspects, in all their interactions.

Sherlock stares, watches competing flushes of embarrassment and arousal fight their way across her skin. He sees the flare of freckles summer left across her collar-bone. The thin white line, all that remains of a childhood scar which tilts elegantly from beneath her jaw to track behind her left ear. Her breasts are pale and pink-nippled and perfect, and they rise and fall with each aroused, happy breath. Her lashes fan her cheeks, elegant and lovely as a shadow-play and he can't help himself, one hand reaches up to touch her face and tug her down to kiss him.

His voice is murmuring things and he thinks it's saying, "I love you," but he's not yet so brave as to let himself be entirely sure.

Not that it matters. Sherlock goes to move but she stays the hand at her cheek. Takes it and his free one in her own and presses them backwards above his head. He sees the arousal in her eyes deepen at the sight of it, and he gives a tiny nod, signifying his consent. Keeps his hands there even as she reaches down and pulls open his belt, his trousers, scooting down the bed to remove his shoes, tickling the sole of his right foot as she does. By the time she comes back to him he's hard enough to start proceedings, though he cannot say whether the same is true for her. But no matter, he'll soon know- She takes him in hand and moves against him and then he _does _know. The slickness on her thighs tells him everything and oh, but he's looked forward to this. There's a twist, a quick movement. Warmth. Wetness. A welcoming pull of flesh against his-

And then he's inside her and they're both moving, both pushing. She gasps his name and he could be wrong but this might be the best feeling in the world. He suspects that's because he's feeling it with her- his Molly- _his Molly._ It could be minutes or it could be hours, he's not rightly certain. He only knows that he holds on until her moment comes, as does his, in a gasp. In a rush. In dizziness. And then there's nothing but the two of them together again, and it is more than enough.

_Now he knows why John chased after Mary so hard. _

They both cling together tightly in the aftermath, pressed against one another in the bed, forehead to forehead.

They stay that way for the rest of the night.

It doesn't feel like an ending, he thinks, and when he tells her she says she knows what he means. It makes him glad, and it seems to make her glad too.

He falls asleep with his socks still on, Molly still in her makeup, and though they both look a fright the next day Sherlock honestly couldn't give a toss.

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><p><em>Two Years In<em>

When she hands him the blue, gift-wrapped box, his first thought is that it smells like urine.

He asks her why this might be- after all, she could have brought him a new case for Christmas, she's thoughtful that way- but Molly raises her eyes heavenward and then kisses his crown lightly. Tells him to, "open the bloody box, and save the deductions for another time."

Inside he finds a pregnancy test, sees the two lines which signify that yes, he is about to reproduce. On seeing it he realises that Molly was foolish enough to furnish the fruit of his loins with a mother, and for that he is more grateful than he can say. For about ten whole minutes he stares at it, unable to speak, unable even to blink he later discovers-

But when she comes home from work the next night she finds his old cradle in John's former room. Finds a microscope and a book-shelf and a tiny nightlight in the shape of Big Ben, all happy, safe, warm things from when Sherlock was a little boy.

He's playing his violin when she comes to thank him, just to show how happy he is because he's not adept at using his words, but he usually finds a way around it. Molly hums as she kisses him and then sets about making the dinner, and Sherlock Holmes, the most unsociable man in London, raises his eyes heavenwards and wishes there were a God he could thank for his good fortune.

_ There isn't, but if there was he would._

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><p>AN There now, hope you enjoyed that. I will at some point finish "The Boy on the Step," but I think this will be my last foray into this universe for a while. Thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, favourited and all round supported. Hobbits away, hey!


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